Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  Jarett had an uncanny ability to read people, and he had seen early on that regardless of generations of Campbell service to the VBPD, Elise wasn’t going to stay in Virginia Beach forever. It was obvious that she wanted to do more and see more than just the Tidewater.

  As a graduate of the FBI’s NEIA program and a member of the Major City Chiefs organization, Chief Jarett had a lot of contacts in D.C. Though he practically had to threaten to fire Elise Campbell to get her to pursue the leads he had set up for her, she interviewed with the FBI, the DEA, and the Secret Service.

  All three organizations invited her back for follow-up interviews and all three subsequently offered her positions, but it was the Secret Service that appealed to her the most.

  While Pop had been supportive of her career move, her father couldn’t hide his disappointment. And though he might have considered Elise’s decision abandonment, her brothers congratulated her for following her own desires.

  She knew they were full of it. With her gone from the Virginia Beach PD, they could both feel better about having bucked the family tradition as well. It made no difference that she was still in law enforcement. As far as they were concerned, she was on their side now and their father could not use her as a wedge anymore. She became a means for her brothers to magnify their independence from their father, and he blamed her for everything he felt had gone wrong with their family, including its geographical breakdown, with one brother in New York, another in Chicago, and her even in nearby D.C.

  Campbell didn’t care for being the family’s emotional football, and even though she loved them, she had grown somewhat estranged over the past couple of years. With all of the travel and long hours in the Service, it was easy to put any semblance of a personal life on hold. It didn’t mean she didn’t want to have one, it just seemed as though there wasn’t time for anything more than casual relationships.

  She knew that also bothered her father. Not that he was aware of the kind of casual relationships she was having, but she wasn’t married and neither were her brothers. Her father saw it as yet another example of the unraveling of America and indicative of how the nation was committing cultural suicide.

  Elise wanted to have a family. It was just a matter of meeting the right man. But as capable as she was as a law enforcement officer, she was incredibly shy when it came to meeting men. It was an odd juxtaposition that her friends constantly teased her about. Some were fond of saying that if she ever met the right man, it better be while he was in the process of committing a crime, or she was very likely to let him escape.

  She doubted that was how it would play out. She was simply old-fashioned. She believed that when she met the right man, they both would know it and that would be it. Plain and simple.

  And as far as remaining desirable until that someone special came along, Elise had nothing to worry about, as the Service required that she remain in top physical condition.

  To that end, and even though she had been at Carolyn Leonard’s so late the night before and had allowed herself to sleep in because she had several days in a row off, she’d still gone for a five-mile run once she was up.

  After returning to her apartment, she took a long hot shower and continued to think about everything she and Carolyn had discussed.

  Leonard was right. The final decision about what to do rested with her. She had also laid out a million different ways that pursuing the president’s alleged involvement in Nikki Hale’s death could blow up in Elise’s face and end her career.

  The upside, if there was one, was minimal compared with what the downside very likely would be. That said, Leonard had admitted that if she was in Elise’s shoes, she would have had trouble dropping the matter as well.

  Campbell didn’t need the added encouragement, but she appreciated her mentor’s admission. In fact, Elise’s mind had been made up from the beginning. She just hadn’t realized it. No matter how small the upside, or how great the downside, she couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

  While she’d remained neutral on-duty during the primaries and through the general election, off-duty she had been an ardent Alden supporter. Many of her friends had said she was in serious need of a twelve-step program in order to kick the Alden Kool-Aid habit. Those same friends would be stunned if they saw her questioning him now. In all fairness, she herself was stunned. A week ago, if anyone had suggested President Alden could have been involved in anything untoward, much less a cover-up around the death of Nikki Hale, she would have told them they were out of their minds. Yet here she was, ready to begin her own quiet, and highly illegal, investigation of the newly elected president of the United States.

  Pouring a cup of coffee, Elise grabbed her cordless phone off the counter and headed back into the living room. Scrolling through her BlackBerry, she found the number she was looking for, plugged it into the cordless, and then leaned back onto the couch and took a quick sip from her mug.

  The call was answered by a woman with a heavy Bronx accent. “East Hampton Town Police. Detective Klees.”

  “Hi, Rita. It’s Elise.”

  “Hey there,” responded a voice deepened from years of smoking. “How ya doing?”

  “I’m good. I’m good,” said Campbell.

  “You been watching the Yankees? They’re off to a good start.”

  Elise laughed. You could take the girl out of the Bronx, but you couldn’t take the Bronx out of the girl. Rita Klees was a rabid Yankees fan.

  “Are you surprised?” asked Campbell. “Look how well they did in the Grapefruit League this year. They’re going all the way.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” replied Klees. “I’ve still got my reservations about Girardi, but he’s very good-looking, and he’s starting to grow on me.”

  “Rita, the man’s married,” Campbell teased.

  “So was Alex Rodriguez until he met Madonna. Listen, as long as Mrs. Girardi keeps Mr. Girardi out of East Hampton, he’ll be fine. But if he happens to come to town and just happens to bump into this particular material girl, I can’t be responsible for what Cupid does to the poor guy.”

  Elise laughed again. She had no doubt that if Girardi, or any other New York Yankee, showed up in her jurisdiction, Rita would personally put them under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Not only that, but she would probably find a way to introduce herself and end up inviting them out to her favorite tavern to drink them under the table. She was one of those people you couldn’t help but enjoy being around. She had an infectious laugh and a larger-than-life personality. She was an irresistible force that immediately became the center of gravity in every room she ever walked into.

  An attractive woman in her late forties with dark hair and bright blue eyes, Klees had a pair of breasts almost as big as her personality. She was fond of saying that her boobs did for her what Columbo’s wrinkled raincoat had done for the clever television detective. Most men, and more than a few women, believed that breast size and intelligence were inversely proportional. That patently asinine line of reasoning was fine by Klees. She was smarter and better at her job than any four men put together. The NYPD had known it and had promoted her accordingly. She’d earned her gold shield faster than any woman in the history of the force.

  But after losing two close friends on 9/11, she’d decided she’d had it with New York City. She traded in the stress, the crime, the hassles, and a not insignificant portion of her paycheck for life in the Hamptons. And while she didn’t live like a rock star or a hotel heiress, she was happy. Rita made friends wherever she went and East Hampton was no exception.

  Though she was several years removed from Manhattan, she still maintained excellent contacts back at the NYPD and with many of the federal law enforcement agencies. When organizations like the Secret Service came to East Hampton, it was a no-brainer for Rita’s chief to assign her as the liaison. That was how she and Elise Campbell had become friends.

  Due to the number of threats he had received, Robert Alden had been assigned Secret
Service protection very early on in the primary campaign, and Elise had been one of the agents tasked to his detail. Part of her responsibility was doing advance work and interfacing with local law enforcement wherever the senator traveled. Though Elise wasn’t working the trip on which Nikki Hale was killed, she had made several visits to East Hampton with Alden and had gotten to know Rita Klees very well. Their mutual love of the Yankees vaulted Campbell’s standing in the East Hampton detective’s eyes, and on multiple evenings off, Rita dragged Elise to some of her favorite watering holes. And even though Campbell had not returned to East Hampton since the Hale incident, she and Rita still kept in touch via email—which technically meant that she was on the daily receiving end of humorous emails forwarded by the East Hampton detective.

  “So, you coming to town or did you call just to talk baseball?” asked Klees.

  “No to both, unfortunately.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need some help with something,” said Campbell. “Do you remember the Nikki Hale case?”

  “The wasted senior staffer who plowed her car into that minivan head-on last summer? Yeah, I remember it. Why?”

  “I need to see the file.”

  “What for?” asked Klees.

  “Off the record?”

  “Sure. Off the record.”

  “There’s a concern that someone may not have been completely truthful in their witness statement.”

  There was a pause and Elise thought she could hear her friend taking a puff on a cigarette, though she doubted even the larger-than-life Rita Klees would be allowed to smoke in the East Hampton Town PD headquarters.

  When Rita finally answered, her tone had changed. She was a lot less jovial and a lot more businesslike. “Which witness are we talking about?” she asked. “And who exactly is concerned?”

  “I can’t say,” replied Elise.

  “Can’t say to which question?”

  “Both.”

  “No offense, Elise, but you were just one of Alden’s advance people and you weren’t even out here during the whole Hale thing. Why am I getting this call from you?”

  “Because we’re friends.”

  Klees was silent again. Elise strained to discern if it was because Rita was taking another drag, but she couldn’t tell. She assumed it was because Klees was deciding how to respond.

  “Are you in some sort of trouble?” asked the detective.

  “No. Of course not,” she replied. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you’re not being straight with me.”

  Whether it was because she’d been a cop, or because she was a native New Yorker, Rita had an exceptional bullshit detector.

  In all fairness, Elise did too, and she knew better than to try to lie her way through this. “I can’t go into the specifics.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you. I can’t say.”

  Again, Rita was silent.

  “Listen,” continued Elise. “I could be completely off-base here. That’s why I need to see the file. And that’s why I’m asking you.”

  “So this isn’t an official Secret Service request, then,” stated Klees.

  “No,” replied Campbell. “It’s just cop to cop.”

  “Well, cop to cop, there’s no way in hell I’m sending you a copy of this file.”

  Rita’s retort stung, and it took Campbell a few seconds to reply. “I’m not asking for my own permanent copy.”

  “Elise, I’ve seen people lose their careers over stuff like this. I like where I am and I’d like to stay here. I also like my captain, even if he is a Mets fan. He’d be in a hell of a lot of trouble if this thing went sideways.”

  “I don’t want to get you or anyone in your department in trouble, Rita. Listen, like I said, I don’t know if there’s anything to this or not.”

  “So what exactly are you looking for?”

  “I won’t know until I see the file.”

  Rita was silent yet again as she thought it over and then replied, “I can’t send you a copy of the file, but I can let you see the one we have here. On one condition.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You come completely clean and tell me what you’re looking for. And if I think, even for a second, that you’re not being totally honest, cop to cop or friend to friend, it won’t matter. Our deal will not only be off, but I’ll get your boss on the phone and find out what the hell is going on, even if I have to reopen this case and make it official.”

  CHAPTER 17

  NORTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN

  Atrip to Nangarhar Hospital in Jalalabad confirmed what Elam Badar already suspected—his son’s jaw was broken. Though it was difficult for the boy to speak, Elam Badar had coaxed from Asadoulah what had happened. When the boy explained that Mullah Massoud’s retarded brother, Zwak, had attacked him without provocation, the father was incensed.

  He had always thought it ridiculous that the elders of Massoud’s village allowed Zwak, the halfwit, to run around with a rifle, even if the barrel was taped at the end. The man should have been kept indoors. Allowing him to roam the streets of his village accusing visitors of being spies or having come to poison the village well was asking for trouble. And now trouble had come.

  Asadoulah told his father how he had made the hour trek to the neighboring village to visit friends. While there, the boys told him about the American that Massoud’s men had taken hostage. Like many Afghan boys, Asadoulah had never seen an American woman before. His friends offered to show her to him.

  Asadoulah told his father that Zwak must have been on the other side of the hut they were using to hold the woman because no sooner had he begun peering through a crack in the wooden door than the retarded man appeared, called Asadoulah a spy, and clubbed the boy in the jaw with the butt of his rifle.

  Elam Badar knew that Zwak had a difficult time remembering the faces of those from even neighboring villages. He himself had been called a spy many times by Massoud’s brother and had been prevented from even walking past their well on more than one occasion. Zwak took his mock duties seriously, but in this case he had gone entirely too far. And so had his brother.

  If the Taliban commander was holding an American woman hostage, that was bad enough, but to put Zwak in charge of guarding her seemed downright foolish. The half-wit was incapable of responding appropriately. The fact that he had countered a bunch of boys peering through a crack in a door with violence proved what a danger he was. His attack on Asadoulah couldn’t be ignored. Zwak and his antics had been tolerated for far too long. Now a boy’s jaw had been broken. Enough was enough.

  Elam Badar parked his truck on the edge of the village and walked toward its center. He was not a particularly big man, nor was he particularly brave, and he did not relish the idea of having to deal with a Taliban commander like Mullah Massoud. But this was about honor, and the Pashtun code was very clear about how such things must be handled, specifically when it came to an assault on a family member.

  In the center of the village, built into a small copse of trees, was an elevated wooden structure with a wide veranda. It was here that the council of village elders, or shura, conducted all of the affairs for the village. Elam Badar mounted the structure’s stairs and removed his shoes before stepping inside.

  One of the villagers sitting on the floor inside recognized him and stood to greet him. They touched hearts and embraced. “It is good to see you, brother,” said the villager.

  “And you,” replied Elam Badar, who, though anxious to speak with the village elders, quieted the anger in his heart and chatted with the man for several minutes before requesting to be seen.

  “What has happened?” asked the man.

  Elam Badar forced a smile. He knew all too well how quickly gossip spread, and he didn’t want Mullah Massoud or his half-wit brother to have time to concoct a story to explain away the attack. He wanted to take them completely by surprise, and so said, “Nothing of great importance. I have a small matter tha
t concerns both of our villages that I need to discuss.”

  He was shown to a small room off to the side where the village elders had just finished a meeting with a handful of men on another subject. After the greetings, the village elders ushered the other men out and invited Elam Badar to take tea with them.

  As he had done with the villager at the door, Elam Badar kept his anger in check and adhered to Pashtun etiquette. They talked about several different subjects of mutual interest before arriving at the true reason Elam Badar had come.

  “I understand you have an American visitor,” he said. “A woman.”

  Of the four elders in the room, it was customary for only one to speak. The man who did was in his sixties with an ash-colored beard and a stern disposition. He had a thick scar that began at the bridge of his nose and traveled downward across the left side of his face to just beneath his ear. Elam Badar knew that the scar was a souvenir from one of the many battles the elder had fought against the Soviets. His name was Baseer.

  “Our village is often blessed with visitors,” replied the chief elder with a motion of his hand that indicated he considered Elam Badar’s visit a blessing.

  Elam Badar nodded politely and kept going. “She must be very important if she is being kept guarded.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended upon the small room. Elam Badar allowed it to linger for several seconds before continuing. “Are you aware that while he was guarding her, Zwak assaulted my son?”

  It was obvious from the look on Baseer’s face that this piece of information took him by surprise. Elam Badar allowed his eyes to shift to the faces of the other three elders and he saw that they were equally shocked. Feeling the wind at his back, he removed from his pocket the paperwork that the young doctor at the hospital in Jalalabad had given him. Carefully unfolding them, he handed the pages to the elder. “With the butt of his rifle,” Elam Badar, asserted, “Zwak broke my son’s jaw.”

  The elder studied the paperwork and then handed it to his colleagues to read. “You have four boys, correct?”